


But Believe Me I'm Fine

by somethingnerdythiswaycomes



Series: Fall Away [11]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: (briefly) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - BDSM, D/s AU, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Polyamory, Skype Sex, Subdrop, Subspace, unhealthy BDSM practice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 14:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7108084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingnerdythiswaycomes/pseuds/somethingnerdythiswaycomes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Otters got swept in the conference finals, they got destroyed in every single game, and Mitch scored the final, fate-sealing goal.</p><p>Somehow Dylan holds himself together through the handshake line.  He holds himself together until he gets to Mitch, who takes hold of his hand, like they’re really just going to shake and say “good game” and move along.  Then Mitch reaches for him, and Dylan goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Believe Me I'm Fine

**Author's Note:**

> a note on tags: "unhealthy BDSM practice" refers to a scene close to the beginning when Mitch knows Dylan is dropping/not in the right frame of mind and engages in a difficult, mentally and emotionally taxing discussion with him, most of which centers around how Dylan lied to him. There is a discussion about how Not Okay this is, and there are apologies.
> 
> set after the Knights swept the Otters in the OHL playoffs.
> 
> I do not represent the real people presented as characters in this fic, nor do I make any claims about what they do or do not do in their private lives.

Dylan can’t believe it ended this way.

It’s not even that he wasn’t expecting it, that it’s a surprise.  No.  He _can’t believe it._

He got the most points against the Knights during the regular season and he couldn’t _buy_ a goal.  He could barely make anything happen.  They couldn’t win a single game.  They couldn’t get within a _single goal_.

They got swept in the conference finals, they got destroyed in every single game, and Mitch scored the final, fate-sealing goal.

Somehow he holds himself together through the handshake line.  He holds himself together until he gets to Mitch, who takes hold of his hand, like they’re really just going to shake and say “good game” and move along.  They both hesitate for a moment, before Mitch reaches for him, and Dylan goes.

Mitch wraps his arm around Dylan’s shoulders, his hand on the back of Dylan’s helmet, pulling him down towards Mitch.  Dylan goes easily, his arms coming up around Mitch’s waist, his helmet pushed up and almost off his head when he presses closer to Mitch.

“You played well,” Mitch whispers in his ear, and this might be why Mitch maneuvered his way to the back of the line, so no one would be rushing them.  “Daddy’s proud, Dyls.”

Dylan blinks back the tears he’s been fighting since the last buzzer.  “I didn’t, but that’s okay.”

“Dyls…” He can hear the frown in Mitch’s voice.

Dylan pats Mitch, right over the name on the back of his jersey, and indulges in another second of a hug before pulling back.

“You better win the whole thing,” Dylan says, and tries to smile.

Mitch pats him again on the helmet, and they move past each other.

Dylan’s almost numb, shaking hands with the Knights’ coaches, skating back to his team and then back down the tunnel.  He stays that way as he takes off his jersey – his last time playing in an Otters jersey, maybe – and his pads, pulls off his skates and his pants.  He sits in his stall for a moment, staring at the pile of his pads and socks and _everything_ on the floor in front of him.  He stands and, in just his under armor, drops to his knees.

“Stromer?” Brindy asks, leaning over to look at him.  “You… ok?”

“Fine,” Dylan says quietly, hanging his head, staring down at his gear.

“Do you need something?” Brindy asks, shifting a little closer.

“No,” Dylan says; when he speaks, he feels like his tongue is two times too big for his mouth.  He feels like a weight’s settling on his shoulders, pulling him down, while his thoughts get all wrapped up in cotton.

“I’m going to get Mitch.”

Dylan can’t find it in himself to argue – part of him doesn’t want to.  A larger part of him doesn’t want Mitch coming in here now, seeing Dylan sinking down because of a loss.  Mitch deserves to celebrate the… the _sweep_.  He shouldn’t have to take care of Dylan.

The dressing room was pretty quiet to begin with, but it goes eerily silent when Brindy leads Mitch back in.

“Dyls?” Mitch says, walking quickly over to him.  “Dyls, you all right?”

“Fine,” Dylan mutters, but he doesn’t look up.  He feel weird, almost-lying to Mitch.  He promised he wouldn’t.  He _promised_.  But he doesn’t want to ruin Mitch’s win.

“Are you lying to me, Dylan?”  Mitch’s voice is still soft, but his hand is heavy on Dylan’s shoulder.

There’s a beat of silence.  Then—

“Yeah,” Dylan gasps out, like he’s coming up from underwater.  “Sorry.”

There’s a pause, and then Mitch is grabbing Dylan by the neck of his shirt and hauling him up to his feet, pulling him out into the hallway and then into a smaller, unoccupied room.  Dylan thinks it might’ve been an office, at some point, but he hasn’t looked up since he first kneeled on the ground.

“Kneel,” Mitch says, steel in his voice.  Dylan drops down, right where he’s standing.  Shit, he knew Mitch would be mad he shouldn’t have left Brindy go get him—

“I’m sorry,” Dylan says, squeezing his eyes shut tight.

“What are you sorry for?”

“You won.  You shouldn’t have to come take care of me.”

“Dylan, that’s not why I’m angry,” Mitch says, walking around Dylan to stand in front of him.  He puts a finger under Dylan’s chin and pushes up.

Dylan doesn’t make him work for it.  As soon as he feels the pressure, he looks up at Mitch.

Mitch is frowning.  Dylan doesn’t like that.

“Do you want to know why I’m angry?”

“Yes,” Dylan says quietly.

“Because you lied to me about how you were feeling.”

Dylan shudders and closes his eyes.  Mitch bops him on the chin.  Dylan opens his eyes again.

“You promised me you wouldn’t lie about how you’re feeling, Dylan.”

“I know.”

“And what did I tell you when you promised?”

Dylan’s breath hitches.  “Y-you said you’d leave.”

“I did say that.”

“You said you couldn’t date me if I didn’t tell you how I was feeling because you kept messing up when you tried to guess and you were sick of it.”

“That’s right, Dylan.”

Dylan swallows around the lump in his throat.  “A-are you going to—”

“Are you asking me if I’m going to leave?”  There’s a coldness in Mitch’s voice that doesn’t fit with the switch that Dylan plays with, or the guy he’s dating.  “Like I said I would?”

“Mitch,” Dylan begs.  “Mitch, I’m sorry.”

“I know you’re sorry,” Mitch says, “But you still did it.  You knew what would happen, and you _lied_ to me Dylan, _again_.”

“I know.”

Mitch sighs and shakes his head.  Dylan scratches his nails over the stretchy fabric of his under armor.

“Can you expect me to believe you the next time you tell me you’re all right, that everything’s fine?  You’ve lied to me _so much_ Dylan, and I was willing to move past everything from – before, because I know what was going on, but you can’t keep doing this.  I can’t keep letting you.  And I can’t do it to _myself_ , you have no idea how much I worry about you—”

“I’m sorry,” Dylan gasps out, digging his fingers into his thighs.  It hurts, dull and throbbing, but he deserves it.  “I’m so sorry, Mitch, I’m so sorry—”

“I’m texting Debrincat,” Mitch says, stepping back, taking his hand away from Dylan’s face.  Dylan lets his head fall, his chin pressing into his chest.  “I’ll wait until he gets here.”

Dylan squeezes his eyes shut and stops trying to hold back his tears.

Mitch doesn’t say a word, doesn’t touch him, and as soon as the door opens, Mitch leaves.

“What’s that about?” Brindy asks, stepping into the room.

Dylan shakes his head, biting his lip, hard, until he gets himself back under control.  Slowly, the tears stop, or at least get quieter, and his shoulders are only shaking a little bit.  Dylan takes a deep breath, and it only catches a little in his chest.

Brindy clears his throat then, when Dylan doesn’t say anything, says quietly, “All right, let’s go get changed.”

 

.oOo.

 

As soon as he gets home, Mitch regrets pretty much the whole thing.

Like, maybe he regrets it a little before then, but it doesn’t really hit him until he’s lying in bed.  He’s still so excited about going to the final, even though it means Dylan’s season is over, and he takes out his phone to see if Connor had texted him back and he remembers—

Dylan looking up at him and begging Mitch not to leave him.  And he was already dropping, _fuck_ , Mitch shouldn’t have done that.  He knows better than that.  He knows better than to deal with any issues when a sub – or switch – is dropping or in subspace.  He shouldn’t blame Dylan for trying to hide how upset he was, especially when he immediately let it slip anyway.

It’s late, especially in Europe, but Mitch needs to talk to someone who understands.  The only person who really understands Dylan as well as Mitch does is Connor.

Mitch takes out his phone and opens Whatsapp, sending Connor a message:

_Dylan emergency.  Skype me._

Connor’s a light sleeper, and he always sleeps with his phone under his pillow. The buzzing’ll wake him up.  The reply comes quickly.

_ok_

Mitch fumbles his laptop open, signing into Skype as he leans back against his pillows and wraps his blanket around his shoulders.  Fuck, he messed up.  He really messed up.  Connor’s gonna murder him.

It’s probably 5 in the morning where Connor is.  Connor’s gonna murder him either way.

When Connor finally calls him, and Mitch accepts the call, Connor looks exhausted, the hood of an Erie sweatshirt pulled around his face and a combination tub/shower behind him.

“What happened?” Connor mumbles, rubbing his eyes with a fist.

“I fucked up Dylan,” Mitch blurts out.  “Like, worse than you did.”

Connor frowns.  “I’m gonna ignore that.  Just tell me what you did.”

Mitch spills the whole story – the result of the game, which Connor didn’t know, Dylan lying to him, putting him on his knees and walking away.  Connor’s mouth is _literally_ hanging open by the end, his eyes wide.

“You did _what?_ ” Connor whispers harshly.

“I made sure somebody came before I left!”

“I don’t care about that!  You shouldn’t have talked to him like that when he was under _or_ when he was dropping!  Are you kidding me, Mitch?!”

“I know.”

“You know how hard he’s been working!”

“I _know._ ”

“Don’t take that tone with me, Mitch.”

Mitch shivers, Connor’s glare and finger pointing at him through the screen reminding him so much of his mother.

“You’re going to fix it.”

“I don’t know how, Connor.”

Connor sighs and burrows deeper in his sweatshirt.  “You managed to solve all those problems Dylan had with _me_ but as soon as it’s _you_ you have no clue, huh?”

Mitch likes this early-morning, too-exhausted-to-be-polite Connor.  “Basically.”

Connor rolls his eyes.  It’s endearing.  “You just have to suck it up and apologize.  You do know it was your fault, right?  You were the one in your right frame of mind.”

“I know, but—”

“But nothing!”

“He still should’ve—”

“He couldn’t even undress himself.  He could barely walk.  And you expected him to be able to process all this shit from the game _and_ the team _and_ you?  Come on, Mitch.”

“He lied to me, Connor!”

“Mitch,” Connor says, his lips twisted in a sneer that Mitch doesn’t think he’s ever seen directed at him before.  “Believe me when I say I honestly don’t give a shit.”

Mitch nods automatically.  Okay – okay.  Like, honestly, it doesn’t matter as much that Dylan lied, when he thinks about it.  When he remembers how defeated Dylan looked, after, how sorry he was when he apologized.  How he didn’t stop apologizing.

“Yeah,” Mitch says quietly.  “Okay.”

“So are you going to call him and apologize?”

“Yeah,” Mitch sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face.  “Yeah, thanks, Connor.”

Connor nods, his face relaxing again into that dopey half-smile that Mitch… loves.  “I’m going back to bed.  I have skate in… fuck, four hours.”

“Thanks, Connor.  I owe you one.”

Connor shrugs a shoulder.  “Consider it paying you back for any of the ones I owed you.”

Mitch smiles softly.  “Deal.  Now get to bed.”

Connor nods again, murmurs a goodbye, and closes the connection.  Mitch sighs and slumps back against his pillows, staring up at the ceiling of his room.

It wasn’t too hard to deal with, when he realized he was attracted to Dylan.  Even when they were mortal enemies, it wasn’t too hard to deal with.  And even as his feelings grew, as they got closer and closer, it _still_ wasn’t that hard.  He could balance this fondness for Dylan, and the attraction, and the dynamic side of him saying that Dylan was _his_.

It got a little harder when Dylan and Connor asked him to be their boyfriend, and when he started liking Connor more, too.

Connor was always in this weird off-limits space because of his relationship with Dylan.  Mitch didn’t want to lose what he had with Dylan, and his friendship with Connor, by butting in where he wasn’t wanted.  But that night in Buffalo changed everything.  He saw how much he really was wanted there.  He really could be a part of this _thing_.

He still doesn’t feel the same way about Connor as he does about Dylan – but he doesn’t think that’s bad.  He loves Dylan.  He’s not sure if he loves Connor; he loves parts of him, like his smile, and his hockey, and how he looks when he’s woken up at 5 in the morning.  But he doesn’t _love_ _Connor_.

He could, though.  He’s getting there.

First things first.

Mitch takes out his phone and dials Dylan’s number.  It rings through to voicemail right away.  Mitch sort of expected that.

He leaves a message.

 

.oOo.

 

Dylan’s really glad the team had decided ahead of time to spend the night in the hotel in London.  Even before the loss, he hadn’t been looking forward to bussing home to Erie after the game, and doubly so after everything with Mitch.

He wakes up around 8 the next morning with Brindy curled around him like an octopus.  Well, he’s got his arms around Brindy, too, and his face in Brindy’s hair, so he guesses they’re really curled around each other.

Brindy’s one of the subs on the team that understood from the beginning that Dylan didn’t really _Dom_ people.  Some of the other subs still tried to get it from him, even when Dylan would say no, even when Dylan tried to explain that some switches can’t just turn it on and off.

He’s tried to help him get ready for the draft, since he went through it the year before.  Brindy’s had a lot of questions.  Dylan doesn’t know how much help he is.

He jams his hand under his pillow and grabs his phone.  Apparently, he never turned his phone on after the game.

Dylan knows as soon as he opens it there’s going to be a barrage of texts about the game.  It’s always so much better to just keep his phone on after the game and put it on silent, so he won’t have to get all the messages at once.

“Brindy,” Dylan whispers, nudging Brindy in the chest.

“What?” he asks muzzily, his eyes opening halfway.

“Can you turn my phone on and put it on silent?”

Brindy doesn’t say anything, but he holds his hand out, so that means he’ll do it.  Dylan hands it to him gratefully, and he watches as Brindy turns it on – and then as he almost drops it when it starts vibrating right away, without stopping.

“What the fuck, Stromer?” Brindy sputters.  “What the actual fuck?”

“Just get it on silent,” Dylan mutters, pulling a pillow over his head.

“Want me to help you go through them?” Brindy asks hesitantly.  “I could just tell you who they’re from?”

“Sure,” Dylan sighs.

Brindy scrolls through Dylan’s phone, reading out who sent texts since the game ended the day before.  Connor, his mom, his dad, Connor’s mom, some of the Otters from years past, an unknown number – which turns out to be, what the fuck, Ryan Nugent-Hopkins.

“You’ve got a missed call, too,” Brindy says, wrinkling his nose.  “Yeah, you’ll wanna return that one.”

“Who is it?”

Even before Brindy tells him, Dylan knows who it is.  It’s the same sort of certainty he has when he feels his phone buzz and know it’s Connor texting him, even though he’d have no way of knowing, outside of their tradition of post-game calls and texts, and a standing Wednesday skype call.

“Marns.”

Dylan groans.

“He left a voicemail, too.”

Dylan’s gonna be a fucking adult about this.  He’s gonna—

“Would it be the biggest dick move in the history of dick moves if I asked you to delete it?” Dylan asks, muffled by the pillow.

“Uh…”

Dylan pushes the pillow off and holds out his hand.  “All right, fine, hand it over.”

He dials into his voicemail and holds the phone to his ear, curling away from Brindy.  As soon as Mitch starts talking, Dylan’s thankful for whatever instinct it was that made him try to keep it private from Brindy.

“Hey, Dyls,” the message starts, and then Mitch sighs.  “First of all, sorry.  I shouldn’t have done that to you – by that, I mean, being a douchebag when you were under.  Sorry.  I know you were upset, and I shouldn’t have… I don’t know.  But we should’ve talked about it instead.  Should.  Talk about it.  Whenever you call I’ll pick up.  And – I know I should’ve been more upfront with you, too.  I can’t just… Okay.  I’m sorry.  Please call me, when you can.  And – I know I didn’t explain myself well, but, I’m really proud of you, Dylan.  I know that last series wasn’t what you wanted, but you were great this season.  The Coyotes’d be fucking stupid to keep you off the roster next year, I swear.  You were fucking amazing against _us_ all season.  If… okay.  Love you, Dyls.”

Dylan sucks in a breath as the message ends.  He can’t remember Mitch ever saying that to him before.  Actually saying that he loves him.  He… he could tell, but not in the way he could tell with Connor.  He’s known Connor for years, he’s always been able to read Connor, but Mitch is different.  Mitch has told him, over the last few months that they’ve officially been dating, that he always figured it was so obviously Connor-and-Dylan that Mitch hadn’t even let himself think about them like that.  Even when he was Domming Dylan, even the couple times all three of them were together.  He’d thought there was such a small chance that—

Like, Dylan’s fucked up, but he doesn’t know if he’s _that_ fucked up.  He’s been better lately anyway.  He hadn’t thought that being open with Connor and Mitch would help that much, but it really did.

“Did he apologize?”

“Yeah,” Dylan says quietly.

“Are you gonna call him back?”

“Yeah.”

Brindy nods and slides out of bed.  “All right.  We’ve only got like 45 minutes until we catch the bus, so don’t be _too_ gross.”

“Shut up,” Dylan grumbles, but he sets an alarm on his phone anyway, just in case.  It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s had to come find Dylan because he gets caught up talking to Mitch or Connor.

Brindy grins at him, and leaves.  Dylan takes a deep breath and texts Mitch, _skype in 5?_

Mitch texts back right away: _logging on now_.

Dylan puts his food to the side and grabs his laptop, quickly logging into skype, and getting the call from Mitch barely a minute later.

“Hey,” Dylan says, settling back against the pillows.

Mitch smiles a little.  “Hey, Dyls.”

“I listened to your message.”

Mitch looks a little nervous, shifting in his bed.  His hair’s sticking up all over; he probably just woke up when Dylan texted him.

“And?”

“I’m sorry.”

Mitch’s eyes widen – and for a second he looks like he’s about to cry.  Dylan freezes; what did he say?  He only apologized!  Why is—

Oh.

“I mean for lying and – that!” Dylan blurts out.  “I’m not trying to let you down easy or something!  I’m not letting you down!  I… love you, too.”

“You do?” Mitch asks quietly.  “You’re not just…”

“I’m not lying,” Dylan says right away, and despairs a little that he needs to clarify that.  “I’m serious, Mitch.”

“I know,” Mitch replies.  “I promise I won’t keep second guessing you.”

“And I’m—”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Mitch interrupts.  “I shouldn’t have been so harsh, not when you’d just gotten…”

“Okay,” Dylan whispers.  “And – you really think we played well?”

“Of course,” Mitch replies vehemently.  “You were great all season, Dylan, and just because you couldn’t win it all doesn’t mean you didn’t play well.”

“Thanks.”  Dylan smiles, shifting a little to tug the blanket around his waist.  “Can you…?”

“Daddy’s proud of you, Dyls,” Mitch says softly, a gentle smile on his face.  “I told you – I don’t know what the Coyotes’re doing if they don’t pull you up for next season.”

“Same for the Leafs,” Dylan nearly whispers.  “You should be in the NHL.”

“ _You_ should be,” Mitch tells him.  “Dyls, you have no idea.  Half our meetings before every game were just how to deal with you on the ice.  You’ve been spectacular all season.  Amazing.  I can’t believe you’re my boyfriend.”

Dylan sighs, sliding his hand up under his shirt and rubbing over his stomach, the way Mitch does sometimes when they’re lying together. 

Mitch laughs quietly.  “Are you touching yourself?”

“Do you want me to be?”

Mitch licks his lips, and pauses for a moment.  “Yeah.”

Dylan goes to slip his hand inside his sweats – until Mitch clicks his tongue.

“Tease yourself,” Mitch says.  “Over your pants.”

“C’mon,” Dylan whines, pressing his palm over the length of his cock.  He doesn’t think Mitch can even see anything through skype.  The video really only shows his face and half of his torso – Mitch can really only see the way Dylan’s arm flexes, how his chest moves as he starts breathing heavier, how he bites his lip.

“You know that first time?” Mitch starts, his eyes burning into Dylan.  “The first time you and I played together.”

Dylan nods quickly, grinding the heel of his palm over his cock.

“And the first time it was you and me and Connor.”

Dylan tosses his head back against his pillows, bucking up against his hand.  His hand through two layers of cotton bring him back to those early stages of their relationship – him and Connor rubbing off against each other, still too nervous of what it would mean to touch each other, or even touch themselves while the other was there.  Trying to hide how turned on and desperate he’d get when he would get on a call with Mitch and listen to how well he was doing.  Letting those walls come down one by one – jerking off for Mitch, touching Connor, getting off with Connor while Mitch watched, squirming in Mitch’s lap and rubbing against him, and…

“Daddy,” Dylan pants, his leg twitching.  “Please…”

“C’mon, Dyls,” Mitch says softly.  “Slide your computer back.  I want to see.”

Dylan scrambles to obey, pushing his computer further back, between his spread legs.  He tilts the screen back, so Mitch can see up the line of his body to his face – Mitch has always said he likes being able to see Dylan’s face, that he wants to be able to read Dylan.

“Please?” Dylan asks, hips twitching into his hand.  He just can’t get _enough_ like this.

“Pants off,” Mitch says.  “Keep your underwear on.”

Dylan shoves his pants off his hips, twisting on the bed to work them down his legs without kicking his laptop.  It’s a mix of relief and torture when he brings his hand back to the bulge of his cock.  There’s a wet spot growing on the front of his briefs, and when he presses his fingers to it, the rough texture of his underwear sends shivers down his spine.

“Daddy,” he moans, and does it again.

“Play with your nipples for me,” Mitch says.  Dylan rubs his thumb over his nipple and jerks.  He doesn’t know where this weird electricity around them is coming from.  He hasn’t felt this unbelievably turned on from so little before.  Not since they first started, when it was still new and surprising when Mitch would just sit there and tell Dylan how well he was playing, how proud he was.

“Talk to me,” Dylan whispers.

Mitch grins.  “What do you want me to say, Dyls?  You want to hear how amazing you’ve been this year?  You wanna hear about all the times I couldn’t sleep and I’d watch highlight reels of your goals and your plays and feel so fucking proud?  We’d get to these strategy meetings for the Otters games and I’d just want to tell everyone about how _good_ you are, and they all knew, too.  The coaches were so surprised that I knew so much about your play – I could barely keep a straight face, because I just kept thinking about every time I’d get off on watching your goals.”

Dylan makes a noise deep in his throat, shoulders hunching as he rubs harder over his cock, pinches his nipple again and again.

“You’re unbelievable, Dylan, fucking unbelievable.  I could never believe you needed me to tell you how amazing you are, when it’s so obvious to anyone that watches you play.  And you’re – it’s not just your hockey, I can’t believe I get you like this, Dylan, that out of everyone you wanted me—”

“Of course I want you,” Dylan forces out.  “Fuck, Daddy…”

“You’re amazing.”

“ _Please!_ ”

“Come for Daddy, Dylan.  C’mon, I wanna see you come—”

Dylan shouts up at the ceiling and comes in his underwear, his hand freezing and pressing down hard on his cock.  He can feel it twitching under his hand, come spurting into his briefs and soaking into the fabric.

“Dyls,” Mitch pants.  Dylan rolls his head just enough to look down at his laptop, at Mitch, red-faced and mouth hanging open, and the flexing of his arm as his hand works his cock just past the edges of the video.

“Daddy,” Dylan murmurs, his fingers absentmindedly brushing over his nipple.  “Daddy…”

Mitch grunts and curls in on himself, his teeth digging into his bottom lip.

“Mitch,” Dylan starts, pauses, and then continues, “It’s the same for me.  I can’t believe you want me.  But you keep telling me you do, so I’m believing you.”

“I love you,” Mitch says plainly, his cheeks still flushed.

“I love you, too,” Dylan replies.  “You… you don’t even know, Mitch.  You’ve done so much, I don’t know if I could even tell you how much.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Mitch tells him.  “I didn’t do it so you’d be thankful.  I helped because I care about you.”

“I know,” Dylan murmurs, trying to hold back his grin.

Dylan’s phone alarm blares, then, and he has to scramble to dig it out of the sheets.

“Bus?” Mitch asks.

“Yeah,” Dylan sighs.

“You still need to eat and drink something.  Keep me on while you pack up, so I can make sure you don’t rush and forget.”

“You’re gonna fall asleep in a minute anyway,” Dylan says, but he leaves the skype window open as he changes his underwear and gets dressed, and downs half a bottle of Gatorade and crams a protein bar into his mouth.

Mitch stays awake, but only barely.  Every time Dylan glances at the screen, Mitch is lying there with his head resting on his arms, smiling at Dylan.

“Call me when you get home?” Mitch asks, then yawns.

“Yeah,” Dylan says, suddenly aching for Mitch to be next to him, holding him, the two of them falling asleep together.  If things had gone different last night, he might’ve gotten that.  He could have gone home with Mitch and fell asleep with him and woke up with him.

But he can’t hold onto that – he made a mistake, and he learned from it, and he still has Mitch with that soft smile on his face, and he has Connor, probably taking an afternoon nap in Europe.

He doesn’t know what he did to deserve the two of them, but he hopes he can keep doing it.

**Author's Note:**

> And as far as I know right now - that closes out the main storyline of Fall Away! we did it folks!! there will probably be more in this 'verse, but this is like the main story of it!!!!!
> 
> join me in sin on tumblr @ somethingnerdythiswaycomes


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